


Paging Dr. Jack

by MsThunderFrost



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Aloe Vera as Lube, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BLgiftexchange2020, Bottom Rhys (Borderlands), Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, Injured Rhys (Borderlands), Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Office Sex, Overstimulation, Protective Handsome Jack (Borderlands), Rhys is Handsome Jack's Personal Assistant, Top Handsome Jack (Borderlands)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28268604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: When Rhys tosses a heavily-scorched manilla folder onto Jack’s desk, grumbling about a literal fire that he’d had to extinguish down in R&D, Jack is already itching to launch someone out of the airlock. From what he can ascertain from the remnants of the folder, the incendiary elemental capacitor on a new pistol that was set to hit the market next week had exploded after the pistol had been fired—he squints; that can’t be right, can it?—one time. How the fuck is he supposed to sell a pistol that has the ‘unfortunate side-effect’ of burning it’s wielder to a crisp after one measly shot? That is a literal PR nightmare just waiting to unfold…And that’s when he sees—“Rhysie, sweet cheeks… you wanna tell me what the fuck happened to your arm?”
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 133





	Paging Dr. Jack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anaquilibria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaquilibria/gifts).



> My contribution to the Borderlands Holiday Gift Exchange <3

Jack worked with a bunch of idiots.

He’d known this before he’d become CEO, of course. But ever since he’d assumed the title—and, vis a vis, responsibility for all of his underlings’ not-so-little fuck-ups—it’d become more and more apparent with each passing day. The Hyperion Corporation was _filled_ with a bunch of idiots. And if it were _at all_ feasible for him to run a corporation of this size on his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to off every last one of them.

The only one who seemed to have two brain cells to rub together was Rhys. Most of the time, Rhys could resolve the smaller crises before they ever had reason to cross Jack’s desk. And if he couldn’t resolve them, he could usually mitigate the damage that they caused. It was rare for him to come before Jack, defeat (and mild irritation) reflected in his eyes, to admit that he needed help extinguishing a fire.

So, when Rhys tosses a heavily-scorched manilla folder onto Jack’s desk, grumbling about a _literal_ fire that he’d had to extinguish down in R&D, Jack is already itching to launch someone out of the airlock. From what he can ascertain from the remnants of the folder, the incendiary elemental capacitor on a new pistol that was set to hit the market _next week_ had exploded after the pistol had been fired—he squints; that _can’t_ be right, can it?— _one time_. How the fuck is he supposed to sell a pistol that has the ‘unfortunate side-effect’ of _burning it’s wielder to a crisp_ after one measly shot? That is a _literal_ PR nightmare just waiting to unfold…

And that’s when he sees—“Rhysie, sweet cheeks… you wanna tell me what the _fuck_ happened to your arm?”

Rhys’ eye twitches, “Like I said, I had to put out a fire.” Yes, but he hadn’t thought that the gun would be able to produce flames hot enough to melt metal—that means the flames were upwards of 1500 degrees. “It could’ve been worse—”

“Have you ever heard of a _fire extinguisher_?” He curls his fingers around Rhys’ left wrist, leading him around the side of his desk so that he can better inspect the damage. “You know, you’re only supposed to stop, drop, and roll when _you’re_ the one that’s on fire. And you’re generally supposed to do it _away_ from the source of the flames.”

“I _did_ use a fire extinguisher.” Rhys huffs, “Do you know the last time that the fire extinguishers down in R&D were inspected? Because they don’t work for shit.” He lets out a startled little squeak as Jack pulls him down onto his lap, “Jack, be serious.”

“They’ve been inspected.” He can’t remember _when_ , exactly, but he’s fairly certain it’s been within the year. “Let me have a look at your arm. Do the burns extend beyond the metal—” The yellow and black metal is heavily scorched, and still fairly warm to the touch. “You know what? Take off your shirt.”

“I… _what_? Jack, we don’t have time for this.” Rhys swats at Jack’s hands, as they pop open the buttons on his blue-and-white striped dress shirt. “ _Jack_ , three of the lab technicians in R&D are _dead_ —”

Jack rolls his eyes, “What a shame.” Determined, he resumes unbuttoning Rhys’ shirt, “If _you’re_ hurt, I’m going to be mounting the head technician’s head over the fireplace back at our penthouse.” He says this in such a genial tone, it’s easy enough to miss the underlying threat. “Now, I think that the damage is mostly cosmetic… but it is possible that you’re just too pissed off to register any actual pain…”

“I don’t know why I even bother…” Rhys turns up his chin, irritated and defiant.

Jack _does_ understand where Rhys is coming from—he isn’t thrilled about the latest setback, either. He doesn’t even want to think about how much money they’ve lost on this project. And three dead lab techs means _more_ paperwork that he’ll never bother to actually fill out (which means even _more_ work for Rhys, down the line). But if Rhys is _hurt_ , then that needs to be addressed here and now. He hadn’t mentioned whether he’d actually been _present_ for the explosion, or had simply stumbled across the flaming remains of the lab after the fact. Neither option is particularly _good_ , though one is considerably worse than the other. If he’d been present for the explosion…

Once Rhys’ shirt is off, Jack carefully detaches his mechanical prosthetic. As he’d suspected, the damage is mostly cosmetic. The worst of it is concentrated near the synovial joint, where the heat had caused the plates to fuse together—freezing the arm at a seventy-three-degree angle. The metal is still warm enough that he can force it to bend somewhere between two to three degrees either way, but that can hardly be considered functional (especially once the metal cools completely, causing the arm to freeze in place). It doesn’t seem to still be synced with his ECHO eye, but otherwise, appears to be fully operational. Jack sets it aside and moves on to inspect Rhys’ shoulder.

Rhys’ skin is red and irritated where it had been flush with the prosthetic. It is unclear, at first glance, whether this is from the explosion or a contact burn. Nevertheless, the redness does not extend more than an inch or two away from the shoulder, and it’s not hot to the touch… Wrapping an arm around Rhys’ waist, he dives into the bottom drawer of his desk to retrieve a tube of aloe vera. Even if it’s not serious, it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.

“What’re you—” Rhys hisses, as Jack applies a liberal coating of aloe vera gel onto his shoulder. “Jack, I’m _fine_. Really.”

“Sure you are, Rhysie baby.” Jack rolls his eyes. He’ll never understand why Rhys has to be so damned _stubborn_ —and he’s not above dragging his insolent ass all the way down to medbay for a _proper_ medical evaluation if he keeps this up. “ _Sure you are_.”

“I _mean_ it, Jack.” He’s beginning to realize how difficult it is to look halfway intimidating when he’s sprawled out over his lover’s lap, shirtless and flushed from irritation and embarrassment. “I really need you to decide on how to proceed with the malfunctioning pistol. And to sign off on the funding to rebuild the R&D lab, _again_. And— _hgn_.”

“Tch,” Jack ghosts his fingers over the front of Rhys’ dress slacks, “Now, sweetie, why didn’t you _tell_ me that you were hurt _here_ , too?” He grins, “It seems like I’m going to have to do a much more _thorough_ inspection…”

“You have to _work_!” Rhys squirms. His back connects with Jack’s desk with a dull _thud_ , causing the charred remains of the manilla folder to tumble off the side and spill their burnt contents absolutely _everywhere_.

Jack watches, mildly amused (and nowhere near as concerned as he _ought_ to be, if you ask Rhys) as the Very Important PapersTM that he was _supposed_ to be looking over are reduced to a pile of ash. “Well, that solves that problem.”

“J- _Jack_!” The heel of Jack’s palm presses down on Rhys’ cock, and works in a slow, steady circle until the front of his slacks are wet and tacky with pre. “You _really_ want to do this? _Right now?_ ”

Jack rolls his eyes, “Are you telling me _you don’t_?”

Rhys makes a show of considering his options. On the one hand, that mess down in R&D is a _major_ safety hazard. Just because he’d managed to extinguish the fire doesn’t mean that the lab has _any_ degree of structural integrity. In fact, the whole ceiling is likely to come down if someone so much as _breathes_ the wrong way in it’s general vicinity. On the other hand, life-affirming office sex. He’s not particularly thrilled by the thought of anyone else dying as the result of a faulty capacitor (err… what he’s _hoping_ is a faulty capacitor, and not something far more serious), but then, how often is Jack this randy at work? The answer is a lot, but he chooses not to dwell on it—

“Fine,” Jack wastes no time unbuckling Rhys’ belt, “on one condition.”

Jack pauses, his long, thin fingers curled around Rhys’ zipper. “Whatever you want, snookums. Name it, and it’s yours.”

Rhys’ lips twist into a pout, “I want you to put Vasquez in charge of the clean-up.” Surely, such a job is beneath the Senior Vice President of Securities Propaganda, but maybe scrubbing soot off of the floor will take the asshole down a couple of pegs. And if it doesn’t, having part of the ceiling collapse on his head certainly will.

Jack considers this for a moment, before offering, “If you hate him so much, wouldn’t it just be easier for me to kill him for you?”

“Easier? Maybe. But this way, we kill two birds with one stone.” He runs his fingers over the bit of flesh peeking out from the collar of Jack’s shirt, teasing the thick, dark hair he finds there, “The R&D lab will be spic and span, and Vasquez will be crushed under a ton of falling debris. It’s a win-win situation.”

Jack grins, “Have I ever mentioned how much I adore that diabolical little brain of yours?”

“Maybe once or t-twice..!” Rhys lets out a startled little squeal as Jack hefts him up onto the desk, laying him out flat on his back.

“Consider it done, princess.”

In a flash, Rhys’ slacks and boxers are bunched around his knees, and Jack is pressing his legs back against his torso. The presence of the clothing makes it difficult to see what it is that Jack is doing—though he _thinks_ that he’s using the aloe vera as makeshift lube, if the cool, soothing tingle he feels spreading from the base of his cock to the dark, weeping tip is any indication. He’s half-tempted to remind him that he hadn’t _actually_ been hurt, beyond the damage that his mechanical prosthetic had sustained (and he _knows_ that Jack has actual lube in his desk—he keeps it in the same drawer as the White Out, which had led to a couple of… _unfortunate_ incidents in the heat of the moment.

Don’t even ask how they could mix the two of them up. Rhys _still_ doesn’t understand how it’d happened _once_ , let alone four times…)

“Mmm… I see, I see…” Jack clicks his tongue. Reaching for the tube of aloe vera, he squirts a bit more of the gel onto his fingers and— _oh_. “What’s the matter, dollface? Did I find a particularly _sensitive_ spot?”

“C-Cold…” is all that Rhys can manage as one long, slender finger sinks inside of him. The aloe vera feels… _odd_ , but not unpleasant. But the juxtaposition of the warmth of Jack’s hands and the cooling effect of the gel is… startling, to say the least.

“Shh…” Jack leans forward, ghosting his lips over Rhys’, as he begins to pump his finger nice and slow. “Just _relax,_ Rhysie baby… I know the perfect way to warm you _right up_.”

The aloe vera doesn’t warm like traditional lube, but as Jack lowers his body down on top of Rhys’, his finger reaching ever deeper inside of him, Rhys finds that he doesn’t actually care. Unable to hook his legs around Jack’s waist like he wants to, Rhys settles for hooking his left arm around Jack’s broad shoulders, his short nails cutting into the fabric of Jack’s jacket. When Jack bends to kiss him again, he sinks his teeth into the CEO’s bottom lip, eagerly lapping at the blood that bubbles up to the surface (and giggling at the swipe of red that it leaves on the otherwise pale, pale mask). He needs more than one measly finger—he wants Jack’s hands absolutely _everywhere_.

By the time that Jack works his way up to a third finger, Rhys is _sobbing_. Jack is not a gentle lover—he is pumping his fingers with such ferocity that Rhys can _feel_ the desk quaking underneath him. If he hadn’t just watched three men lose their lives to a malfunctioning Hyperion gun, and seen the mangled remains of his Hyperion standard mechanical prosthetic, he’d feel confident in the craftsmanship of Jack’s desk.

Now, it’s not so much a question of _if_ they’re going to break the desk… but _when_.

There’s a warmth building low in his belly. Is he about to cum, just from this? If that’s the case, Jack will _never_ let him live it down… He takes a deep breath, desperate to stave off his orgasm, if only for a couple minutes longer. Jack, however, appears to have a _different_ plan in mind. Leaning down, he scrapes his teeth along the length of Rhys’ neck, before swirling his tongue over the dark, blue-black ink of Rhys’ tattoo. His fingers piston in and out, faster and faster, the calloused pads of his fingers abusing that sensitive little bundle of nerves inside him until… Rhys’ vision goes white as he arches his back off of the desk and _screams_ , as he paints his chest and belly in thick ropes of white.

Rhys’ cock is _still_ twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm when Jack withdraws his fingers. Rhys’ hole twitches, desperately attempting to clamp down upon the air—he vaguely registers the sharp sound of a zipper descending, before he’s crying out for an entirely _different_ reason. It’s _good_. So very _good_. He’s just loose enough to take the entirety of him without tearing, but not so loose that he cannot feel every delightful inch of him as he buries himself to the hilt. Rhys is teetering on the line between ‘too much’ and ‘not enough’. His cock makes a valiant effort to return to hardness, though each twinge sends a white-hot jolt of pain-pleasure through his system…

“J-Jack…” Rhys struggles to draw in enough air. Black dots creep in at the corners of his vision as he holds onto Jack for dear life. The desk groans, loudly, with the force of Jack’s thrusts, various pieces of paperwork flying left and right.

Rhys knows that _he’s_ going to be the one cleaning up the resulting mess… and he cannot even bring himself to care.

“Think you can cum for me, one more time, Rhysie baby?” Jack curls his hand around Rhys’ cock, causing the younger man to draw in a sharp, shuddering breath. He can’t seem to decide whether he wants to scurry away from the touch, or buck into it.

“P-Please…” Tears begin to pool in the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, anymore.

“Just one more…” Jack sing-songs. He cants his hips just so, causing the head of his cock to drag over Rhys’ prostate. Rhys lets out a desperate cry, his fingers tearing into the fabric of Jack’s jacket. He can _hear_ it tear over the soft huffs of his own breath. “One more time, and I’ll give you what you _really_ want. C’mon, and be a good boy for Daddy…”

Rhys shudders. He wants _so badly_ to be good. He begins to pump his hips, desperately chasing the tight, hot heat of Jack’s hand. Jack continues to lavish him in praise, whilst his tongue traces the thick lines of his tattoos, gathering up the sweat that dots his pale, freckled skin. Rhys’ second orgasm is decidedly weaker than the first. Jack feels it before Rhys is even fully cognizant of what’s happening, feels the way that his hot, tight heat flutters around his cock as he—

“ _Jack_!”

He must’ve blacked out for a second there, because the next thing he knows, Jack is cleaning him up with a warm washcloth and reapplying some aloe vera gel to his shoulder. He offers Rhys a bright smile when he sees that the other man is finally awake, before disappearing into the bathroom to wash his hands and dispose of the final remnants of their tryst. When he comes back, he uses the intercom to have his secretary send Vasquez up to his office.

“How’re you feeling?” Jack asks—and if Rhys weren’t mistaken, he’d say that there was even genuine concern in his eyes.

“Better. Though, I do believe that I told you that I was _fine_. This was fun, but…” he bites his lip, “You have to trust that I’ll tell you if I’m not okay.” His eyes skirt to his mechanical arm, “Though, I suppose that there’s no saving that, huh?”

“Nope. It’s got about a snowball’s chance in hell of ever being fully functional again.” Which sucks, because he knows that Rhys had liked that model. “Tell ya what, sweet cheeks. How about you and I track down whoever’s left of the R&D department and see if they can whip you up something to tide you over till the lab is fixed—then we’ll see if there’s any chance they can fix this.”

He knows that the odds are slim to none, but he cannot help but hope… “And if they can’t?”

Jack shrugs, “Then, there’s always room over our fireplace.”


End file.
